


The Fire

by gonergone



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:24:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/pseuds/gonergone
Summary: Friendship is just another word for devotion.The fact that many – most? – of Henry's misadventures could be traced directly or indirectly straight back to Walt himself wasn't lost on him, and he knew wasn't lost on Henry, either.  Henry was his anchor, and Walt knew that he would never, ever be able to make up to Henry all of the things Henry had sacrificed for him.  One day, he expected, he'd be called on to correct the unequal balance between them, and he'd gladly give his life to do so.





	The Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristophine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/gifts).



Walt was dreaming about horses when the phone started ringing. One reason he had always insisted on keeping the phone in the living room was because when late night calls came he had time to actually wake into coherency by the time he groggily stumbled out of bed and into the other room, not that Martha had ever appreciated that. She had never been a heavy sleeper, and by the time Walt made it to the ringing phone she was usually wide awake and would get up with him to fix him coffee while he got dressed and headed out into whatever emergency required a middle of the night call.

Of course, that had been when Walt was a younger man; now he was older, and it took his sleep-deprived brain a few precious seconds to register what Vic had to practically shout over the phone, the noise on her end was so loud. " – some kind of fire. You'd better get down here. By the time I got here they'd already left with Henry for the hospital." There was a pause, and Walt was already moving back toward his bedroom, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder and stripping off the clothes he'd been sleeping in. He could hear sirens and shouting behind Vic, could imagine the firefighters and crisscrossing hoses illuminated by flames and red and blue lights, the smoke billowing into the cold night sky. He heard Vic take a breath in, steeling herself, and knew it was bad. "He said Henry was unresponsive, Walt. I don't know any more than that." 

"Get the Ferg down there to help you with the fire. I'm going to the hospital." He hung up before she could respond, yanking on yesterday's jeans and a clean blue button down, his mind fixated on the various things that _unresponsive_ might mean. She hadn't said injured, she hadn't said burned. She hadn't, thank whatever was holy in the world, said _dead_. If the Pony had caught fire and Henry had been there, had been sleeping upstairs or cleaning up the kitchen or mopping behind the bar, there somewhere at all, then he would have done everything in his power to stop the fire. And he wouldn't have left until he was dead or the fire was out – of that much Walt was sure.

 _Unresponsive_ was probably the best he could hope for.

*

Walt reflected grimly that he'd probably spent far more than his fair share of time in the hospital's main waiting room, enough that the beige walls (which were probably meant to be comforting somehow) only tended to increase his anxiety, reminding him of sitting and waiting for news about Vic, about Cady, about Branch and Lucien, and the days and weeks of waiting for Martha's chemo treatments to be over so he could drive her home. Walt had never been an especially optimistic person, and working in law enforcement for so long had sharpened his predisposition into a hard, inflexible cynicism, buoyed by the fact that the worst case scenario, in Walt's experience, was usually the one that came to pass. 

It was on that cheerful thought that Dr. Weston led him back to Henry's room.

"We had to intubate him due to the smoke inhalation, so even when he wakes up he won't be able to talk."

"You mean he's not conscious now?" Walt frowned.

Weston shook his head. "He's been in and out. Mental confusion is pretty likely for a while, too, so if he saw anything he may not remember or be able to describe it. The good news is that the chest x-ray didn't show extensive damage, so with any luck we'll be able to take the tube out sooner rather than later."

"Thanks." Walt waited for the door to close behind Weston before he looked over at his best friend, feeling the hot crash of relief wash over him that Henry was still alive at all, that when Walt touched the side of Henry's neck he could feel the warmth of his skin and the strong pulse thudding way just beneath the surface. 

He pulled a chair next to the bed and sat, dropping his hat onto the table beside him. He watched the slight rise and fall of Henry's chest, concentrating on matching his breaths, as if by doing so Walt could keep him breathing, keep him alive, keep him safe. It wasn't the first time Walt had sat beside Henry's hospital bed hoping for those things, and he doubted it would be the last, either. The fact that many – most? – of Henry's misadventures could be traced directly or indirectly straight back to Walt himself wasn't lost on him, and he knew wasn't lost on Henry, either. Henry was his anchor, and Walt knew that he would never, ever be able to make up to Henry all of the things Henry had sacrificed for him. One day, he expected, he'd be called on to correct the unequal balance between them, and he'd gladly give his life to do so.

Looking at how still Henry was, he just hoped he'd get the chance. 

*

Walt wasn't sure how long he sat there, but eventually, sometime after the sun had risen, he felt Henry's fingers twitch in his, and when he glanced up Henry's dark eyes were fixed on his face.

"Morning," Walt said, and had to clear his throat since he'd been sitting there for so long.

Henry's eyes closed briefly, his hand moving to touch the tube coming out of his mouth.

"Pretty sure that's helping you breathe. You might be stuck with it for a while," Walt warned.

Henry grunted around it and managed to sound so outraged and aggrieved in just that small sound that Walt couldn't hide his grin. 

"Let me find a nurse or something." Before Walt could stand, though, Henry's hand had found his again, squeezing lightly. Walt squeezed back gently, feeling most of the tension drain from his body. Henry was going to be fine. He was Henry, after all. They would get through this, and then through the next thing, and the thing after that. Nothing else mattered. 

"You really scared the shit out of me," he told him, not that Henry needed to be told. "Asshole." Henry was watching him again, and Walt thought that if he could have, he'd have been smiling.

When he slipped out into the hallway, he could feel the weight of the hundreds of things he had to do – call Vic, call Ruby, call the fifteen or so people that would need to assess what had happened at the Red Pony – suddenly returning to weigh him down. By the time he reached the nurses' station at the end of the hall he had a plan for the day. One way or another, they always got through whatever came at them, and this time would be no different. Maybe they'd eventually learn their lesson, but Walt doubted it. He supposed he was okay with that.


End file.
